


Voices at the Door

by rhymer23



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Letters, Rivendell, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymer23/pseuds/rhymer23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo spent nineteen years in Rivendell, as both he and the world changed. This is those nineteen years charted in scenes between Bilbo and Aragorn, plus occasional letters that remained unsent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mountains and Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by Through Other Eyes, the 1000 words story I wrote for the October Lord of the Rings Community challenge, on the theme of "One picture is worth a thousand words." In that story, Aragorn bought comfort to Bilbo in Rivendell by painting him a word picture of the Shire. It was clear that this was an established tradition between them. 
> 
> I wanted to write more, but I was reluctant to undermine that first story. Needless to say, the Muse won, so this, here, is that expanded story, covering the whole period of Bilbo's years in Rivendell, telling it in snapshots and short scenes, most of them between Bilbo and Aragorn. You do not have to read Through Other Eyes to understand this; this story starts several years earlier. Conversely, you do not need to read this story to understand Through Other Eyes. Think of Through Other Eyes as a missing scene from this story, that can stand perfectly well by itself.
> 
> There are fourteen scenes, and about 16,000 words. Since years pass sometimes between the scenes, I think it suits serial posting, but there will be no long delays. The whole story will be posted within a week. There are no cliffhangers, and each scene can stand on its own.

**I: Mountains and Moonlight**

The wolves were howling in the mountains. Dark lines of cloud were etched across the sky, obscuring the full moon; only a faint light remained, slate grey, rather than silver. Bilbo's fire was almost out. He prodded it with a stick, and watched the orange sparks fly upwards, then vanish into the night, carried by the wind.

It was very cold.

"What a fool you are, Bilbo Baggins," he muttered to himself. He had spent half a year with the dwarves in Erebor, and had departed on the day of summer's final blaze. "Which means a chilly autumn in the mountains, and it might be winter soon, before the end."

He grabbed another branch, intending to throw it onto the fire, but something screamed in the night. The sound rose high and shrill, then was suddenly cut off. "Some poor animal getting eaten," he said, "and I don't want it to be me. Better be cold and unseen, than eaten and warm." He pulled his blanket tighter.

In the trees behind him, the small twigs were rattling together like bones. It was barely October, but few leaves remained on the branches. "Not like home," he said, before remembering that the Shire was no longer his home. He had walked away from it just over a year ago, and now his home was the whole of Middle Earth and the endless road.

"The endless road," he murmured out loud. "Forever and on."

The wolves fell silent. He drew Sting an inch out of its scabbard, but its blade remained dull. He let out a breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. He had chosen this life. For his last few years in Hobbiton, he had felt cabined and confined, trapped and yet… _stretched_ ; that was how he had described it to Gandalf. This was better. The road stretched out in every direction, boundless in its possibilities, and he was free.

"Free," he whispered.

The howling started up again, first one wolf, and then another, as if they were shouting messages at each other across the mountains. "I wonder what they're saying," he thought. "'I spy a nice juicy hobbit.' I hope it's not that."

But they had howled on other nights, too, and no harm had ever come to him. "And it's better like this," he said, as he settled himself down beside the dying fire and prepared to sleep. "I'm happier here than I was at home."

_Home_ , he thought.

"Than I was," he said, "in the Shire."

******

He was wandering in a bleached wilderness, searching, searching desperately for something that was precious to him, something he had lost. Then the ground at his feet simply fell away, vanishing between one step and the next. He fell, and woke up with a start. 

"Just a dream," he told himself. 

He shifted position, easing the stiffness of old joints. The moon was still concealed, but it was bright enough for its location to be clearly visible. He had slept for several hours, he thought. His fire was down to black embers, in which a few gleaming sparks still doggedly blazed. The night was very quiet, just the cold wind whispering in the dying trees. 

Bilbo had not meant to do it, but he found himself drawing Sting. The blade shone with a dull light, but even as he scrambled to his feet, the light winked out, and the blade was dark again. 

He stopped breathing, then very slowly let out a breath. "Now what could have happened?" He whispered it, hardly any sound on the wind. "Goblins don't just disappear like that, unless they're…" He swallowed. "Dead," he said.

He heard the faintest of sounds away to his right, deeper into the trees. "Now the sensible thing to do," he said, "would be to stay here nice and quietly and hurry away as soon as it's light." His feet started to move towards the sound. "Morning can't be so many hours away, after all." He drew Sting fully from its scabbard. The blade was still dull. He looked back. The tiny sparks of his fire were lost in the darkness, impossible to see. 

No wolves howled. The clouds were moving fast, some of them dark-edged, hinting at rain. But then came a patch of clear sky, and the moon blazed forth. The shadows of the trees seemed blacker than the rest of the night. 

"Go back," he thought, but he no longer spoke out loud. "Yes, that would be the sensible thing to do." But still his feet carried him forward, moving him on without a sound.

He saw the goblin first, lying dead on a bier of autumn leaves, criss-crossed with the shadows of trees. The other figure was harder to see; Bilbo's gaze passed right over him at first, and it was only a tiny inkling of a second thought that caused Bilbo to look again. The figure was almost lost in the shadows, betrayed only by the sudden emerging of the moon. 

"Who… who are you?" Bilbo demanded. "I'm armed!"

There was no reply. Bilbo heard no sound of movement, but the figure seemed to disappear, almost as if he had put on… "But no," Bilbo thought. "He can't have. There's only one, and that's mine, and… No. No," he thought, and he frowned fiercely at the place where the other person had been hiding, and yes, there he was, still there.

"I expect you think I can't see you," he said, "but I have very keen eyes. I was a burglar once, you know. Nobody can hide from me."

"I can see that, Master Hobbit," said a voice from the darkness.

"Well, then." Bilbo brandished his sword. "Come out where I can see you. Don't hide away like some…"

"Burglar?" suggested the voice.

"Villain," said Bilbo firmly, but then his sword almost slipped from his hand in surprise. "You called me Master Hobbit!" he gasped. "Nobody ever knows about hobbits. You called me Master Hobbit."

"I did," the voice agreed ruefully. 

"Well," said Bilbo, recovering himself, "that means… I don't know what it means." His blade was still dull, but of course goblins were not the only danger in the wilds, and not even the worst. "Did you kill the goblin?" he demanded.

"I did," the voice admitted. 

"Oh." Bilbo looked at the dead goblin, then hastily looked away again. Even a dead goblin was still… well, dead. But only a few minutes before, it had been alive, and so very close to him, and he had been fast asleep and unaware of it. He shivered with sudden cold. "Are you going to kill me?" 

"No," said the voice. Bilbo let out a breath. The branches stirred above him, but there was no other sound. "Do you believe me?" the voice asked quietly.

"I…" Bilbo stopped; closed his mouth again. Leaves rustled, the sound barely perceptible. Bilbo wondered if the owner of the voice was going away. He wondered if he was relieved. But then he saw the goblin. So close, it had been; so close. "I want to," he said.

The figure emerged from the trees; so he hadn't gone, after all. He was a tall man, taller than any man Bilbo had seen, except for Beorn. His clothes were weatherbeaten, and his face in the silver moonlight was somehow ageless. He had a long knife in his hand, but he held it reversed, its point sticking out behind him in a gesture of no threat. Its blade was stained dark, and not just with shadow.

"I thought you'd gone." It sounded like a silly thing to say, but, there, he'd said it. 

"I almost did," said the man.

"Oh." Bilbo realised that Sting was still thrust out in front of him. He lowered it; considered sheathing it, but did not. The man had a serious face, perhaps even a grim one, but there was something about his expression, something Bilbo could not pin down. "I… think I believe you," he found himself saying. 

The man smiled, and suddenly Bilbo was sure of it. But even villains could smile, he reminded himself. It was easy to imagine such a man as a villain. But then he looked again at the man's eyes in the moonlight, and thought that he couldn't imagine him as a villain at all. 

"Oh…" Bilbo moaned, shaking his head with indecision. He glanced again at his dull blade. "Why did you kill the goblin?"

The man gave a crooked, fleeting smile. "They were creeping up on you. I, on the other hand, they were unaware of."

" _They._ " Bilbo's left hand rose flutteringly to his mouth, then down again. "So you knew I was there before I came and found you. Were you going to make yourself known?"

The man said nothing, but then he shook his head.

"Oh," said Bilbo. He seemed to be saying it a lot. He made a sudden decision. If he told the man to run along, to hurry away like a good fellow, he could just double back and creep up on Bilbo from the other side. The damage was done now, so he just had to make the best of it. "Well, come along, then. Join me at my fire." He sheathed Sting. "Although it's all burned down now, just embers and ashes. I thought I'd build it up again, but I thought that… _things_ would see it."

"Some of those things fear firelight," said the man, "and others need no light to draw them, for they hunt by smell."

"Oh," said Bilbo. "That's… not a cheering thought." He clutched at brightness. "May as well light that fire, then, and get a little warmth. Do you want some supper? It's late, of course, but when isn't it a good time for eating?"

The man followed him back to Bilbo's camp. Bilbo started to coax the fire back into life, but he kept a discreet eye on the man as he did so, and saw that he was wiping his knife clean. Then he sheathed it, and Bilbo concentrated on the fire for a while. "There we are," he said at last. "A nice cheerful flame."

The man settled himself down, his long legs drawn up in front of him. The firelight dazzled Bilbo's eyes, and made it harder for him to see the man's face. He told himself that it didn't matter. 

"Where did the goblin come from?" Bilbo asked instead. 

"These are their hunting grounds," the man said. "You have come further north than was wise, Master Hobbit."

"But…" Bilbo looked up at the moon, at the dark trees, at the mountains beyond. "But I haven't seen any goblins before tonight. Of course," he added, "I wouldn't have seen any tonight, either, if I hadn't…" He stopped; let out a breath; started again. "You weren't going to make yourself known. You just killed it. Them. You killed them, and you were going to go away again." He looked into the fire, at the shadows at the heart of flame. "It's not the first night you've done this. It's not the first night, is it?"

The man said nothing. It was answer enough. 

Bilbo closed his eyes. He had no idea how to react. He wanted to be furious. He wanted to be grateful. He had chosen this life, and he was a great traveller of the wilds, and although he was small, he was fearless, and let anybody dare say otherwise. But he was old, and he was tired, and although he sometimes dreamed of wandering and searching, he most often dreamed of Rivendell. 

_Well_ , he thought. _The damage is done. No use crying over spilled milk._

"So what's your name?" he asked. "If you've been following me around for days, killing all the horrid things that want to eat me, the least you can do is tell me your name. You're a guest at my campsite, after all."

"I… prefer not to," said the man. "I apologise for this breach of the rules of hospitality, but…" He let out a slow breath. "I, too, have need for caution. Even a chance-met hobbit might not be what he seems."

Bilbo moved closer to him, so he could see him more clearly, without the firelight getting in the way. There was a strange expression on the man's face, and for a moment, Bilbo thought he had caught him unawares. In the silver moonlight, he looked carved from stone, "like those statues," Bilbo said, suddenly startled into speaking out loud. "You don't look like the other men I know, not that I know many, just the men of Dale, and I used to think men looked all the same, like sheep. But you look like a statue I saw; they said he was long ago dead, a king from Westernesse beyond the sea. 'I expect the elves still remember them, Gandalf,' I said, and Gandalf said that some of their people still remain, wandering in the wilderness… Oh, you must think I'm silly. We talk, you see, we hobbits, when we don't know what to say."

The man smiled, but for some reason, it only increased his likeness to the statue. "The Dunedain," he said. "Rangers, people call them."

"The Dunedain," Bilbo echoed. "A Dunadan," he said, remembering his Elvish. "Is that what you are? I can't call you that."

"Why not?" the man said with a smile.

"It would be like you calling me Hobbit."

"I believe I did," said the man.

"You did," Bilbo conceded. "Oh. Food," he said, remembering his offer of a meal. He rumaged around until he found some dried meat and cram. "How do you know about hobbits, anyway?" he asked as he chewed.

"I have travelled widely," said the Dunadan. 

"So have I!" Bilbo said eagerly. "Isn't it a wonderful feeling when you're out on the road, and you know that the whole world is ahead of you, and you can go just anywhere, and there are towers ahead of you, and rivers and lakes and fields of flowers and mountains, _mountains._ I want to see them all before I settle down to rest."

"Where will you go next?" the Dunadan asked.

"South," Bilbo said firmly. "There are cities there. I've never seen a city, not a real one. And I want to see the elven woods, and I read somewhere about two great pillars of ancient kings. Sometimes I can see them in my mind, almost as if I'm standing there in front of them, but the picture is veiled somehow. I need to see them. I need to see them, Dunadan."

The fire crackled. A dark streak of cloud passed over the moon, a line drawn across its face. "Perhaps you will," the Dunadan said. 

Bilbo pressed his hand flat against his breast. "No perhaps about it. I will. I will."

_But first_ , said his feet, said his heart, said the very core of him, _first you will go to Rivendell and stay there, just for a little while. And then… And then…_

"Look at this, Dunadan!" Bilbo cast out his right hand, gesturing at the sky, at the whole world around them. "This is why I left my home. _This._ They call it the wilds, but it's beautiful, too. Oh, yes, it's dangerous, too, I know that, but it can be beautiful even when it's terrible. Look at those clouds. They're like lines of grey paint drawn by a child with a shaky hand, with all the black sinking to the bottom. And, look, over there, where there's a gap in the clouds, small enough that I can cover it with my hand. But the stars!

"Like silver jewels in an obsidian crown," the Dunadan said. 

Bilbo gave a shuddering laugh; it was closer, perhaps, to tears. "And just enough moonlight to show the mountain peaks, where the snow reflects the glory of the silver moon. Unchanging…"

"No, not unchanging," said the Dunadan, "for the mountains change, but so slowly that we cannot see."

"And the trees," Bilbo said. "Tall dark shadows…"

"But see how the moonlight touches them where their leaves are damp," said the Dunadan. "Even in an autumn twilight, the trees are gleaming."

Bilbo passed his hand across his eyes. "You should put it in a song, Dunadan." He tried to laugh. "You play this game well. You could be a poet, with a bit more practice."

"Other paths await me, I'm afraid."

"Well," said Bilbo, "that's a shame."

He fell asleep shortly afterwards, and dreamed of moonlight and mountains and a road that had no end. 

When he woke up, the Dunadan was gone.

"So that's the end of it," Bilbo said.


	2. Black rocks

**Black rocks**

The path zigzagged up the sheer valley side, shaded by trees and high walls of stone. Bilbo paused for breath, resting his hand against the mossy surface of the rock. Small fronds of fern brushed his fingers. "I don't think," he gasped, "that I'm quite as sturdy... as I used to be." 

It was late summer, but even here, there were places where sunlight dappled. He could no longer hear the sound of running water. Trees lower down the valley hid the roofs of Rivendell, but very faint and far away, he could still catch the echo of a song.

He pushed himself away from the rock, and continued to climb. "Not far now," he said, because at the top was heather moorland, purple as far as the eye could see, and beyond that mountains, and the river, and the distant sea. 

When he reached the top, he threw himself down, and lay for a while on his back, gazing up at the sky. His face prickled with sweat. A bee came over to investigate him, buzzing around his face. "Go away, bumblebee," he murmured, "dumbledore, humblebee."

He rolled onto his stomach, then scrambled awkwardly into a sitting position. "Not as easy as it used to be," he said. "I think I'm getting old."

He hadn't felt old, not really, before he had left the Shire. He had felt restless and wrong and stretched too thin, but seldom old. 

"But I've still got plenty of years in me," he said cheeringly. "One day I'll find somewhere nice where I can rest, but there's still time to travel to oh so many places."

Beyond the heather, the mountains were grey. Clouds clung to the highest peaks.

"But not today," he said, and closed his eyes, and turned away. 

When he opened them, a tall elf was approaching across the moorland, heading towards Rivendell on foot. "At least," said Bilbo, "I think it's an elf, because who else is it likely to be?" He decided to stay where he was, in case the elf had news he was willing to share, or songs and stories that he was willing to tell.

It was only when the traveller was almost upon him that Bilbo realised that it was a man. Men were altogether more chancy than elves. But even though the moorland looked wild, it was well within the Elrond's realm, and the hidden watchers at the bounds had allowed this man to pass, so that meant there was no danger in him. 

Bilbo rose to his feet. The man drew closer still. There was something familiar about his face, Bilbo realised. He frowned at him, struggling to place the memory. 

"The Dunadan!" he cried. "Is that you?"

"It is indeed, Master Hobbit." The Dunadan looked less like a statue in the daylight, of course. Sunlight was merciless, showing the sweat on his brow, and the dust of the road that marked the fine lines on his face. But then he smiled, and Bilbo was reminded quite unexpectedly of Elrond in a rare, merry mood.

"I knew I was right to trust you," Bilbo said. "Well, apart from the whole thing when you didn't kill me while I slept. But they wouldn't let you be here unless you were an elf-friend and a good man."

"I am glad you have your approval, Master Hobbit." The man's voice was grave, but his eyes were sparkling, and Bilbo thought that for some strange reason, he really meant it. 

"Oh, that won't do," Bilbo said. "You can't go on Master Hobbiting me, not now. Come. Come. Sit down for a bit. Are you going down to Rivendell? We can walk down together in a minute. Oh, but where was I? Names. Yes, names. I am..."

"Bilbo Baggins," said the Dunadan, "unless I am very much mistaken."

"Oh," said Bilbo. "Yes. Yes, I am. How did you know?"

"You are quite a famous hobbit, Master Baggins." The Dunadan settled down beside him. "In truth, I suspected who you were when we met last year, but I could not take the risk of counting upon it. Traps have been set for me before now. Sometimes people chance-met in the wilds are other than they seem."

"Traps." Bilbo swallowed. "That all sounds very... dangerous, and... important. I don't think anybody sets traps for me."

"And let us hope that they never do," the Dunadan said with surprising fervour. 

Bilbo shivered, although no cloud had passed in front of the sun. He remembered the malice of Smaug, and although he had long tried to forget it, the hatred of Gollum, shrieking in the dark. 

"What a gloomy thought," Bilbo said, "on a lovely day like this. Look at the roofs of Rivendell, sparkling in the sun! You can never feel sad in the House of Elrond, you know; that's what they say." He let out a slow breath. A bird rose up from the valley, wheeled, and flew away to the south. 

"Indeed," said the Dunadan quietly. "This was my home once."

Bilbo turned towards him. "You! A man?"

The Dunadan smiled. "I was raised here. When I was a foolish boy of ten years old, the most curious group of travellers came to stay. I stayed up past my bedtime to catch a glimpse of them. Dwarves I had heard of before, and Gandalf I knew from tales, but the last member of the party was new to me. They told me afterwards that he called himself a hobbit."

"That was me!" Bilbo clapped his hands together. He frowned, struggling to remember. So long ago, it seemed; so long! "I don't remember..."

"You would not have seen me," the Dunadan said. "I was kept well away from travellers then." He quirked a half smile. "My mother was quite cross with me that night, I remember."

"Why would she...?" Bilbo tilted his head, considering. "Traps, again, I suppose."

The Dunadan looked at him in surprise. "Your eyes are keen, Master Baggins. I have, perhaps, already said too much, but you are a guest in the House of Elrond, so little harm can come of it. My name is Aragorn son of Arathorn."

"Aragorn." Bilbo smiled. "So now we are properly introduced. What a shame there's no tea! And cake; cake is good for an introduction." 

"I have lembas," the Dunadan offered.

"No." Bilbo shook his head. "Lembas is food for the road, and this is..."

He stopped. He sighed. Clouds were rising in the west, soft and white and lovely. Bilbo had been in Rivendell for three quarters of a year. 

"Have you travelled?" he found himself saying. "Since I last saw you, I mean. I... meant to. I was going to. I came here just for the winter, but then spring came, and... " He ran his hand through a sprig of heather, until the flowers sat like pink beads between his fingers. "And then the summer, and it's nearly autumn now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next spring."

The Dunadan said nothing. 

"Have you travelled, Dunadan?" Bilbo asked urgently. "Aragorn, I mean."

"Dunadan will serve," Aragorn said gently. "Let it remind us of our first meeting, when neither of us could trust each other with names. And, yes, I have travelled."

"Tell me." Bilbo snatched his hand upwards, ripping flowers from the stalk. "I have such pictures in my mind, but they're veiled, always veiled."

Aragorn was silent for a while. "At the start of summer," he said at last, and quietly, "I stood on the edge of a high plateau. It was moorland like this, but the heather was white, and it was speckled all over with yellow flowers, their four petals like a star. Rising from the moorland were stacks of black rock, formed into towering shapes."

Bilbo closed his eyes. "What sort of shapes?" 

"Curious ones. Some were like a man, and some you could almost imagine to have the shape of a beast. Some were so slender at the base, that it seemed impossible for them to stand without toppling over, but stand they did. The stone was black, but when sunlight shone on them, as it did, they sparkled, because the black rock was embedded with a myriad tiny crystals."

"Ah," Bilbo breathed. "I can almost see it."

"There were no trees," said Aragorn, "but as I walked, a grey bird rose up from the nearest rocks, and then another and another. For a moment, the sky was dark with them, but then they were gone, and I was alone."

"I want to see it some day." Bilbo pulled his lower lip in with his teeth, chewed it, and let it go. "I will see it one day, or somewhere like it. I will." He opened his eyes, and almost shouted it. "I will, Aragorn. I will."

Aragorn looked at him solemnly, his expression unreadable. "I trust you will," he said. "One way or another, you will."


	3. Interlude: The First Letter

**Interlude: The First Letter**

> _My dear Frodo,_
> 
> _How are you, my boy? I'm hoping you're taking good care of that old hobbit hole of mine. But of course you are; you always were far more responsible than me. Not the kind to go gallivanting off on his birthday. And it's yours now, of course, not mine._
> 
> _Oh, this isn't the way I meant to start this letter. I've started it so many times in my head, you know, but now I come to write it, I can't find the words, and here I am, prattling away like a fool._
> 
> _I'll start again. My dear Frodo, I hope you're well. Since I left Hobbiton that night, I've been on such journeys. First I came to Rivendell, and then I went to see the Dwarves in Dale, and then_

The pen stopped writing. The fire crackled, and a high clear voice was singing. Outside the window, the sky was grey, and fine rain fell on the many-panelled glass.

 _And then_ , he thought, _I went to see the stone cities in the south, and I sailed upon the Great River, and I slept beneath the stars. I saw strange rock formations and vast grasslands where horses ride free. Because that's why I left you, my dear Frodo; because I was no longer content to live within unchanging walls. There is now no door between me and the open road._

He laid down his pen. He could write no lies. 

"Frodo didn't want me to go, Gandalf," he found himself saying. "Oh, he loved me too well to say so out loud, but it was true, even so. He didn't want me to go, but he knew I had to. He knew I needed to travel. He knew I felt trapped by staying in one place."

"He knew," Gandalf agreed. 

Bilbo pressed his hands down on the letter, feeling the last words smear and blur. "So how can I write the truth?" he said. "I always meant to settle down to rest somewhere, but I didn't mean it to be so soon. He offered to come with me, you know, but I said no. He's still in love with the Shire, but I craved the wilds and a larger country. He knew that. So how can I tell him that I've just exchanged one set of walls for another, and the only difference is that these walls don't include him?"

"He would not see it that way," said Gandalf, "because that is not how it is. He understands, Bilbo."

"But he would still be hurt."

"No," said Gandalf. "He understands more than you know."

Bilbo picked up the letter and threw it into the fire. The shadows of words were imprinted on his palms, impossible to read. "I'll write next year," he said. "I'll have travelled by then, after spring comes. I'll have such tales to tell him!"

Gandalf stood up, his steps soft on the carpet. "What shall I tell him? Shall I give him any news of you?"

Bilbo let out a breath, and moved to the window, to gaze out at the rain. "Tell him nothing," he said, as his mind saw pictures beyond the clouds. "Let him imagine me to be where he wants me to be. It's better that way."

******


	4. Gold

**Gold**

Even in Rivendell, snow sometimes fell. For weeks, Bilbo had seldom ventured outside. He dozed whole days away, musing on the words of songs not yet written. Whenever a door opened, it bought with it a rush of cold air and a flurry of powdery snow. The firelight painted pictures, and the music of the elves swept him away into dreams. 

"Not the season for travelling," he murmured in a gap between songs, "just for resting indoors."

They were strange, those dreams. He was sailing into the west, beneath a field of stars. He was crawling in the dark, seeking something he had lost, something precious to him. He saw two slender elves dressed for war, but maybe there was just one of them reflected in a mirror, because they were so alike. 

People came and went. An elf maiden carried a vase of red berries and filigree seed cases, as delicate as lace. Bilbo stood at the top of a mountain and surveyed the world at his feet. He was opening his own front door, heading out with Frodo at his side. The Dunadan was there, ragged and weatherworn and wrapped in fur. Another man was with him, very like him, but not so tall. Aragorn appeared to be giving him orders, but Bilbo could not hear what was said. The man bowed his head at the end of it, and pressed his fist against his chest. He wore a brooch there, like a silver star.

Bilbo watched through half-closed lashes. This much, at least, was not a dream, he thought. 

He struggled awake. The door opened, bringing in the usual blast of icy air. The other man left, but the Dunadan was approaching Bilbo, his footsteps soft on the cold stone floor.

"Who was that man?" Dreams still clung to him. "Did he bow to you?"

"One of my people," said Aragorn with a smile, "come here to seek advice."

"And now he's gone again?" Bilbo shivered. "In this weather! Some animals sleep through the winter, you know. I always used to think they were so silly." His voice was faint and wondering. He rubbed his eyes with the back of a fist, first one and then the other. "But you've been travelling, too, I can see that."

In truth, the Dunadan looked quite as villainous as Bilbo had ever seen him. Wherever he had been, the journey had clearly been hard, and it had left its mark. His furs looked warm, but as the snow melted, they turned damp and ragged. "Like an smelly old wet bear," Bilbo thought.

"Not as bad as that, I hope," the Dunadan laughed.

"Oh, I hadn't meant to…" To say it out loud. He wiped his eyes again, and yawned into his hand. "I'm still half asleep. It's easy to sleep here; easy to dream. I've been writing a lot, you know. I spent most of last year busy with it. Not the book I meant to write, but other things. 'Translations from the Elvish, by Bilbo Baggins.' That's what I'm calling it. When I've finished it, I'll travel again."

Aragorn took off his furry cape and placed it carefully in a corner, where it could steam and smell to its heart's content. His clothes underneath were, if anything, even more tatty. The back of one hand was dark with old bruises, and his lips were chapped and dry.

"Of course," said Bilbo, "there's so much Elvish here in Rivendell to translate that I could keep going forever. Master Elrond lets me read his books, or some of them, because some are too ancient and precious. They were written before the world was changed. And even if I wanted to, I couldn't travel to the places described in those tales, because they're gone, lost under the waves."

"Many places are," said Aragorn gravely, "but not all."

"Numenor is," said Bilbo. "I've been reading about Numenor a lot, and the sea kings that came from there, and the kingdoms that they founded here in Middle Earth. Master Elrond has a special interest in them, you know, because of his brother… but I expect you know that; of course you do." But Aragorn was no longer looking at him. His eyes were distant, and firelight played upon his face. It shone on the pillars, too, where pearl and silver traced the patterns of the stars. "I've been thinking about names, too," Bilbo said, "and what they mean in Elvish. I think," he said, "I have an idea," he said, "of what your name," he said, "might mean."

Aragorn said nothing. _Traps again_ , Bilbo thought. _Of course. Come on, Bilbo. Change the subject. Why should he tell you? You've only met… how many times? That first time, of course, and then the second, and several more after that, and that makes…_

"I can't remember how long I've been living here," Bilbo confessed. "Is this the third winter, or the fourth? Time passes so strangely here. I always knew that Rivendell was a special place, but I've read more now, and listened to even much more than that. It's not just a special place; it's the _last_ place. It holds all the echoes of the world that is gone. The Last Homely House East of the Sea. I thought that meant that when you walked on past it, you were in the wilds, but it means _last_ , too; last in time."

"Not quite," said Aragorn softly. He sat down, leaning back against the pillar on its shadowed side. 

"Tell me about them," Bilbo begged. "Not about the places that are gone, but those that still remain. Paint me one of your pictures. Tell me where you've been."

"Very well," Aragorn said. "In the spring…" He let out a breath. Apart from that, he was completely still. "It was dawn in late spring. I stood on rich farmland, covered with vineyards and orchards and pale pink blossom. There was a tall mountain in the west, grey in the morning mist, and cut into the mountainside, there was a great city."

"Cut?" Bilbo said. "Like the cities of the dwarves?"

Aragorn shook his head. "Not underground, no. Great circular walls of stone surrounded the shoulder of the mountain, which thrust out like the keel of a ship."

"The elves have told me about ships," Bilbo murmured, "but I have never seen one. They seem sad when they tell me about them."

"Like a stone knife, then," said Aragorn, "but the walls were built around it, in seven circular tiers, each one higher than the last, and at the top, there was a mighty tower. Even in the mists of early dawn, it gleamed, but as I watched, the sun rose in the east. It touched the pinnacle of the tower first, and then the walls…"

Bilbo clapped his hands together. "And they shone like gold!"

"Not gold," said Aragorn, "for these walls seldom shine. It was soft light, like a maiden's blush. They are made of enduring stone, not jewels. This was Minas Anor once, the Tower of the Setting Sun, and it was fashioned by men who were born in Numenor before the fall. But now it is Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard, and seldom now does the sun rise in the east. Its walls are strong and white and turned towards war. It guards the realm of Gondor from the Shadow in the East."

"And you were there in the spring," Bilbo said.

"Not this spring." Aragorn shook his head. "It was long ago that I last saw Minas Tirith. I… I am sorry, Bilbo. I broke the rules of the game. Somewhere I have travelled to since our last meeting; that is what it is meant to be, is it not?"

"Oh," said Bilbo. "Oh, no. It doesn't matter. Truly it doesn't." _You fool, Bilbo Baggins_ , he berated himself. _Now you've gone and made him sad._ He sought around for something merry to say, but nothing came to mind.

But then Aragorn was speaking again. "You are right," he said, "in what you suspect. I am Chieftain of the Dunedain of the North, descended through many fathers from Isildur, son of Elendil, High King of Arnor and Gondor."

Bilbo had clapped his hands together with joy when he had first suspected it, but now that it was confirmed, he felt strangely sad. "When the King returns…" he said. "That's what we still say in the Shire, meaning some future time when everything will be well."

Aragorn gave a quick breath of a laugh. "And also meaning a future time that will never come. I know your Shire proverbs, Master Baggins."

"But it might," Bilbo said. "It might."

"It might," Aragorn agreed. His face was still in shadow, hidden more deeply than it had been in the moonlight of their first meeting. "It was foreseen that a time will come when I will be put to the test. One way or the other, the wandering life of my people will come to an end, but whether it is because we fall into the darkness and are forgotten even by those few who now remember us, or whether we will step forth into the light, I do not know."

"Oh, the light!" said Bilbo. "The light!"

Aragorn turned his face towards him, and gave a sad smile. "I wish I had your faith."

"But you won't be forgotten," Bilbo vowed, "even if… those bad things happen, which they won't. Oh, the songs that people should be singing about you: the lost heirs of kings, tramping around looking like vagabonds, helping people, killing goblins that creep too near to foolish sleeping hobbits…"

"There are no songs," said Aragorn, "or none that any but the Dunedain sing."

"But there should be," Bilbo insisted. 

And afterwards, after Aragorn had headed out once more into the snow, to resume his solitary wandering, Bilbo picked up his pen. He thought of Minas Tirith, that had been built by ancient kings from across the sea, and still endured, although it seldom shone. _Not gold_ , Aragorn had said. Not gold, because it did not gleam. 

And then he thought of a man who wandered through the snows of winter, in lands that he should rightly rule as king. He thought of a friend who brought tales to an old hobbit, without pausing to see to his own comfort first.

He started to write, and the words came easily to him, as the truest verses always did. 

_All that is gold does not glitter_

_Not all those who wander are lost… ___


	5. Ruins

**Ruins**

It was hot beneath the pine trees. Even though there had been no rain for days, the ground was still damp beneath its carpet of pine needles, and the air was thick with the scent of resin. In the slanting sunlight far above, Bilbo caught a quick glimpse of a squirrel, just a flash of an orange tail. Speckled butterflies flew between the branches, and he could hear the drilling of many woodpeckers, although he had yet to see one.

"I'll just rest here," he said, "for a little while." He squirmed out of his pack. His back was sodden with sweat, and suddenly cold as it was exposed to the air. "It's harder than I remember it, this walking business."

He sat down on the needles, his legs stretched out, and his hands on the ground behind him. He flexed his feet, grimacing at the pain in his calf muscles. Even the soles of his feet were sore. His chest still ached from the effort of the climb, and he felt faintly light-headed, "as if I'm not quite here," he said, "but have faded…"

He let the thought trail away. The air touched the wet clothes at his back, and he shivered. 

"It reminds me a little bit," he said, "of how I felt before I left Bag End, all unsettled and… stretched. Now why should that be?"

_Food!_ he thought. Food would set things right. He rummaged in his pack and pulled out some fruit, only slightly bruised, and a soft white roll. As he ate them, he became aware of someone else approaching. 

By the time it occurred to him that he might want to get out of sight, it was already far too late. "That's what living in Rivendell does to you, I suppose," he said. "It makes you forget that there can be such a thing as danger."

"Indeed it does," said Aragorn with a smile.

"Sit down, Dunadan. Sit down." Bilbo gestured with his half-eaten roll. "I've got food to share. It tastes better when it's shared, or that's what I've always found. Unless you've got places you're hurrying off to. You weren't expected back in Rivendell for several days, you know."

"I arrived early," Aragorn said. "Barely an hour after you left, in fact."

"Yes." Bilbo looked up at the patches of blue sky beyond the tall treetops. "It was such lovely weather, you see. I thought I'd go for a little walk – not a proper journeying, of course, but two or three nights out, and then home in time for tea. I can't remember how long it is since I've done such a thing."

"So they told me." Aragorn settled down beside him. Bilbo watched him as he did so. 

"How far away the ground must seem when you're as tall as a man!" Bilbo blurted out. "Why, falling over must be such a dangerous business."

Aragorn laughed. "We have learned how to live with it."

Bilbo pulled out another apple and passed it to him. "Did you come out specially to find me? I was heading south, you see. There's an old guard post near the river, a day's journey south of the ford. I wanted to see it." He took a bit of his own apple, and chewed it slowly, savouring the taste. "I've become quite interested in Numenorean ruins since I met you. Oh. Oh," he said in sudden consternation. "I don't mean that I think you're a Numenorean ruin, of course… Oh. Oh dear. I'm making things worse."

"Not at all," laughed Aragorn. Bilbo looked at him anxiously, but he seemed genuinely amused.

"Well," said Bilbo, recovering himself, "it seemed like a good reason for a walk. But it's harder than I remember it, walking. I think it might take longer than I thought."

The laughter had left Aragorn's face. He had not yet started his apple, but was shining it, rubbing it against his palm. "You do know," he said at last, "that you haven't turned south? The river is some miles away, and you are…"

"…on the road back to the Shire." Bilbo closed his eyes. "Oh. Yes. So I am." He had known it, of course he had known it, but still… 

His feet had decided it without bothering to ask his permission, he thought. 

"But why shouldn't I go there?" he said. "Why can't I pay a quick visit? I can't leave Rivendell yet – all my writings are there, and there are still so many stories that I haven't heard. But I left something behind in Hobbiton, something that's mine. Something that I want," said the ache in his chest. "Something that I need," said that light-headed part of him, the part that saw with shadowed eyes.

His hands were shaking. The apple core slipped from his fingers.

How he longed to see that old Ring of his! Whole days went by in Rivendell without him even thinking about it, but now that he had named it, he realised that it had been in his mind from the moment he had crossed the ford.

"And why shouldn't I?" he said. "It is mine, after all."

Aragorn was looking at him gravely, and Bilbo fought the sudden urge to scream at him: _don't look at me like that! It's mine! It's mine!_

"I think," said Aragorn gently, "that you should come back with me to Rivendell. A storm is rising quite unexpectedly in the east, and summer's heat is coming to an end. That's what I came to tell you."

"I can't walk to the Shire in a storm," Bilbo agreed. He stood up, and slowly turned back to face the way that he had come. Something twisted inside him, and it might have been pain, or it might have been relief. He wriggled into the straps of his pack, and grimaced as it drove the wet clothes into his back. His legs felt far more stiff than they had before he had stopped. "I think I need to practise with shorter walks," he said. "It's… How long have I been at Rivendell?"

"Nearly six years," Aragorn said.

"Oh." Bilbo frowned. "I thought it had been less than that. But sometimes it feels like a lifetime; it's so very hard to tell. Six years without ever going very far." He took a first painful step, and then a second. It became easier after a while, but not much. "But I would have liked to have seen that guard post."

"I have seen it," said Aragorn. He was slowing his long stride, allowing Bilbo to set the pace. 

"Then tell me," Bilbo urged him. "Tell me about it, please."

And Aragorn did so, as side by side, they walked back home to Rivendell.


	6. Interlude: The Second Letter

**Interlude: The Second Letter**

> _My dear Frodo,_
> 
> _Over the years, I have started so many letters to you, but somehow I never seem to finish them. Unfinished, they sit there, staring at me, reminding me of how useless words can sometimes be, when it comes to telling the truth to someone you love._
> 
> _Maybe you need to come here and see for yourself. Until you've seen Rivendell with your own eyes, I don't think you'll ever understand. Why I came here, I mean. Why I stay._
> 
> _Yes, yes! What an excellent idea! Come back with Gandalf when he rides back this way. I'll show you what I've been getting up to. I've nearly finished my book, you know. Of course, whenever I almost finish it, I come across something new that I need to put in it, and there we go again. But that's the joy of it, don't you think? Stories are like the Road: when you start out upon them, you never know where you will finish.._
> 
> _I would like you to read it. We can argue about all the things I still need to say. We can walk the road of words together. I think I might be too old to walk the other Road again._
> 
> _And since you're coming here, could you bring that old Ring of mine along with you? I'd very much like to see it again. ___

The page stirred in the breeze from the open window. Bilbo shivered. "How cold it is," he said, "although it's barely autumn."

"Is it?" said Gandalf. "I was thinking how warm it was in here."

"But you spend your time wandering in cold places." He laid down his pen. "Will you bring Frodo back with you when you come? I would very much like him to visit."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. "Would you?"

"I don't think a letter alone will make him understand," Bilbo said. "And I want him to understand; I want that very much indeed. I used to think he wouldn't, but now I've been here longer, I think he would. And, besides, he's got something, something of mine."

"Yours?" The other eyebrow went up.

"That old Ring of mine," Bilbo said. His hand went to his empty pocket. He recognised the movement as something intensely familiar. "I forgot to bring it with me. I can't think why."

"The Ring has passed on, Bilbo." Gandalf's voice was gentle, but the air felt suddenly as cold as winter. 

Bilbo closed his eyes. "I dream of it, sometimes. Oh, not often, not here in Rivendell, except when something happens to remind me. But when I pass the borders of Rivendell... Sometimes even when I merely think about passing the borders of Rivendell..." He opened his eyes, and looked at Gandalf beseechingly. "Is there such harm in that, Gandalf?"

Gandalf's eyes were full of pity, but they were merciless, too, in a way. "I'm afraid there could be, Bilbo."

Bilbo picked up the letter and pressed it between his hands. "Then what can I say to him?"

But Gandalf had no answers, not to this.

Bilbo tore the letter in two, and threw the pieces away. "Oh, I can't find the words. I can write whole books, but I can't do this. But when you see him, will you tell him..." 

_Tell him that I'm thinking of him._

_Tell him that I'm happy._

_Tell him to bring it anyway. Tell him that I'll come myself one day. Tell him that I'll come for it._

_Tell him that it's mine._

"Tell him… nothing," he said at last, "but when you come back, tell me... tell me if he is happy, because I so much want him to be. Because I am," he said, wiping at his stinging eyes. "I am. Really."


	7. The First Swallow of Summer

**The first swallow of summer**

Bronze-edged leaves skittered across all the terraces. Wind blew through the pillars and the open porches. When Bilbo looked up from his window, he saw swallows flying south for the winter. "I wonder where they go," he thought, "and if anyone watches them arrive when they get there, and wonders where they came from." He waved to them, wishing them good fortune and a safe journey. 

He was often cold. Sometimes he wore a second jacket on top of the first, or wrapped himself in a blanket as he sat by the fire. He went outside less and less, although often he watched it through the window.

"I think I'm getting old," he confessed to Aragorn, as they sat side by side with mugs of warm mulled wine, a few days after he had watched the swallows fly. "Or maybe I've been old for a long time, but kept forgetting. One day soon, perhaps, there will come a winter without a spring that I will see."

"Not for a long time, I trust," said Aragorn. 

"We'll see." Bilbo had both hands wrapped around the mug, although it was almost too hot for that. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the steam. "I don't fear that time. It will be just like falling asleep. In Rivendell, how can you be afraid of falling into a dream? But I would like to finish my book first, and I still have so many poems to write, and so many songs."

"I know you have." Aragorn raised his mug in a silent toast. 

Bilbo echoed the gesture, and took a drink. The rich spices blended perfectly with the deep red wine. "What are the spices called, and where do they come from?" Bilbo wondered. 

"Cinnamon and cloves," said Aragorn, "nutmeg, mace and star anise. Some come from Lothlorien, and some from southern Gondor, but most spices come from much further away. It has become increasingly hard to trade with such places in recent years."

Bilbo breathed them in deeply, and savoured the thought of those distant places. "Have you been there, to the places where the spices come from?"

"I have."

Bilbo blew across the surface of wine, setting the spices swirling. "Tell me," he breathed. "No, don't tell me yet. I was wondering where the swallows go in winter. Have you been there, too?"

"I have." Aragorn took a long swig from his mug. "The spices come from further east, but the swallows travel further south. They had arrived before I did, and were gathering to leave again on the day I left. After a day, they had left me far behind, and I walked on alone beneath empty skies."

He said no more about it, though, and Bilbo did not ask. For years, Aragorn had been painting him pictures of the places he had seen, and Bilbo cherished each and every one of them, but today he had no idea what sort of picture he wanted to see. 

Bilbo took another drink, feeling the warmth spread through his body. He wriggled his shoulders out of the blanket. "What's the best wine you've ever tasted?" he asked.

"Old Winyards," Aragorn replied, without a moment's thought.

Bilbo laughed. "I won't fall for such tricks, you know. We hobbits like it very much indeed, but we are a simple people with simple tastes. It is not a wine for the heir of kings."

"I mean it," Aragorn said. "I have drunk ancient wines in cold stone towers, and precious wines that speak of the glories of the world that is gone. But the wines of the Shire are made for friendship and fellowship. They make no greater claims than those, but what claim could be greater? There are many men who could stand to learn some lessons from the hobbits of the Shire."

Bilbo shook his head. "You're still teasing me."

"I am not," Aragorn insisted. "You Shire folk are a lesson to us all. You might seem shallow to someone who does not know you, but you run deep, and the things that you value are some of the truest, most important things of all."

The warmth of the wine had seeped through Bilbo's whole body. He pulled off the blanket, and stood up, still clutching the cooling dregs of his drink. Dry leaves swirled against his window, and the swallows had all gone. 

"Do you often visit the Shire?" Bilbo asked. His window faced the west. In winter, when the trees were bare, he could see the high slopes on the far side of the valley. "Oh, but I think you do. I've seen things and heard things and read things. I know that you and your people labour endlessly to keep us safe, us silly, heedless folk who never think to wonder why the terrible things from stories never come to our own front doors. Why do you do it?"

He heard Aragorn moving behind him. "Because you are worth protecting."

"No." Bilbo shook his head. Putting down the mug, he pressed his hand against the window. It felt shockingly cold against his wine-warmed palm. "Why do _you_ do it? But I already know. You are the rightful King of Arnor, and your people are its lords. You take upon yourself all the responsibility of kingship, but none of its glory. It isn't fair."

Aragorn gave a soft laugh. "What else can we do, my friend?"

Bilbo sighed. "What else?"

The window began to steam up from the warmth of Bilbo's breath. With the tip of his index finger, Bilbo began to draw in it, just a simple circle. 

A ring.

"Paint me a picture, Aragorn," he begged. "Somewhere. Anywhere. I don't know what I want."

"Then I will tell you about green hills," said Aragorn. "It was the middle of spring, but as warm as summer. I stood in a quiet lane with tall banks on either side, scattered with primroses and cowslips and violets. An orange-tipped butterfly was passing from flower to flower, but found none to its liking. I know not what it was seeking."

"Bluebells," said Bilbo, "or red campion. That is, if it's like the orange-tipped butterflies we have at home."

"It was," Aragorn said. "At the top of the bank on my right, there was a hedgerow. It must have been laid by somebody, once, but it had been untended for many years. A cherry tree grew in it, heavy with blossom, and all the thorns in the hedge were wrapped around with bindweed." 

"Bindweed! How the Gaffer used to complain about bindweed!"

"But on the other side," Aragorn said, "there was an old fence. There was a fox trail going under it, with orange hair caught in splinters of the wood. Are you familiar with the smell of foxes?"

Bilbo wrinkled his nose. "Oh yes."

"The hills were beyond the fence. They were rounded and gentle, and sheep were grazing on the slopes, keeping the grass smooth and green. It was a beautiful day: did I tell you that? A thrush was singing, but when I looked up, I saw not a thrush, but the first swallow of summer."

"The first swallow of summer!" Bilbo clapped his hands together. "Oh, I think I like this best out of all the places you have painted for me. It sounds like somewhere I have seen in dreams."

"In dreams?" Aragorn asked quietly.

"No. No." Bilbo brought both hands to his face, breathing into his palms. "Somewhere I've been. I've walked that lane. I've seen those hills. Green Hill Country, not far south of the road." He turned to Aragorn, his eyes brimming. "Oh, thank you. Thank you so much, my dear friend."


	8. The Evening Star

**The evening star**

The summer breeze was trying to steal his pages. "I probably shouldn't try to write outside," Bilbo said, "but it makes a nice change." Two doves were billing on an archway below, and butterflies were dancing in the sunlight. 

He was translating old poems, walking once more upon the great Road that was ancient history and story. He fell asleep amid an elegy to the lost beauty of Luthien. When he opened his eyes, he saw Luthien herself walking towards him, more beautiful even than the songs could make her. 

He blinked, but she was not a dream. She was escorted by tall elves who wore brooches fashioned in the form of green leaves, and as she passed him, it seemed to Bilbo that her gaze fell upon him, and her mouth curved slightly into a gentle smile.

"Who is she?" he asked, when she had passed inside, and the world and everything in it resumed. The doves were still there. The butterflies still flew. The soft wisps of cloud were little moved from where they had been. "Who was she?" he asked.

At length he found somebody who would tell him. She was Arwen, the daughter of Elrond, the Evenstar of her people, and she had returned from a long stay with her mother's people in Lothlorien.

"Lothlorien," Bilbo breathed that night, as he gazed at the evening star gleaming bright in the west. Aragorn had often promised to paint him a picture of Lorien, but never had. 

_This time, my friend_ , Bilbo thought, _I'll try to paint a picture for you, if words can do justice to beauty such as hers._

******

It was over a year before Aragorn returned to Rivendell. Bilbo watched him from a high balcony, and saw how heavy his step was, and how haggard he looked, how tired. He did not see him again that day, but that night, Bilbo dozed in the Hall of Fire as music and singing lapped around him like the waters of a gentle pool. Rising slowly through the surface of song, he saw Arwen in a dress of blue and silver, sitting in a low chair. A tall elf stood beside her…

No, not an elf, he realised. It was Aragorn, dressed as an elf lord, wise and strong. He said something to Arwen, and Arwen smiled at him, a smile like the first clear dawn of summer.

Bilbo carried that smile back with him into sleep. 

******

"I saw you arriving," Bilbo said, the following morning. He had almost convinced himself that the previous night had been a dream. "You looked tired, Dunadan. Have they been very difficult, the paths that you have been walking?"

"Dark and difficult," Aragorn said. He was back in his travel-worn clothes; or maybe he had never changed them. "I was far in the east, hunting."

"Hunting?" Bilbo ran his finger up and down and patterned metal of the balcony rail. "What were you hunting?"

"Something that needs to be captured."

"Needs to be," Bilbo echoed. "So you haven't caught it yet?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I will paint no pictures of the roads I have travelled since last we met, for some things should not be remembered."

A white creeping plant was entwined around the railing. Bilbo brushed its petals with his fingers, and watched the pollen fall. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I had a picture for you this time, but I think… Unless I was dreaming, I think…" He rubbed his fingers together, scattering the last of the yellow pollen. "I think you might know about it already."

Aragorn came to stand beside him. The railing came not much higher than his waist, whereas Bilbo had to stand on tiptoe to see over it. It was strange how comforting it felt to have someone so tall beside you. Once, long ago, Bilbo had felt threatened by it, but it was years now since he had seen anybody close to his own height. 

"She was such a vision of beauty," Bilbo said, "as if I had… fallen into a song. I thought she was Luthien."

"So did I," Aragorn said quietly, "when first we met."

Bilbo glanced up at him, and caught once again an echo of the man he had seen the night before. If he had received such a smile from Arwen, Bilbo thought that he, too, would shine. 

"And are you…?" Bilbo began, but he found that he could not ask it. There was so little about his friend that he did not know. For years, Aragorn had been bringing Bilbo what he needed, but Bilbo had never wondered what pictures Aragorn cherished in his own mind. Until he had seen Arwen, he had never thought to return the gift.

"We pledged our troth in Lorien," said Aragorn, "many years ago. Since then we have seldom met. We cannot be together, not yet, and maybe never will be."

"Oh!" Bilbo cried. "Why not?"

"Because…" Aragorn was silent for a very long time. There was movement on the terrace below them, half hidden by the trees. A male blackbird sang from the rooftop, its beak shining like gold. 

"Oh, I wish I could help you, the way you've helped me," Bilbo said fervently. "You've been so good to me. Even when you come in half-dead with exhaustion, you've made time to seek me out. I know it seems silly, but if it wasn't for those pictures of yours…"

Bilbo would never travel again; he was at peace with that now. But back in those early days, Aragorn had helped him to realise that he could travel without even stepping outside. He would never walk in the Shire again, but Aragorn had ensured that he no longer needed to. Even in Rivendell, he could still see the Shire.

"It's impossible to feel truly discontented in the House of Elrond," Bilbo said, "but you can feel melancholy at times. If it wasn't for you, I would feel melancholy more often. Because of your pictures. Because of your friendship… Oh dear, I'm not saying it well. We hobbits aren't good at saying those things that really matter. We talk so much, but only because we don't know how to say those few words that mean the most." He reached up and touched Aragorn's arm where it rested on the railing. "I wish I could help."

"You do," Aragorn said. "You always have."

Bilbo shook his head. "But I haven't done anything."

"You have." Aragorn looked upwards towards the sun. "When you describe something for someone else, you see it more clearly yourself. When I walked in fair places, I searched for scenes that I could describe to you. I saw the beauty of places that I would never have noticed otherwise. I paused, when I had time, to seek out precious views. I've cherished them all this past year, especially those from the Shire."

"Oh," said Bilbo. "Really? Even when you've got…" He swallowed. "I mean, when there's Arwen… When you must surely have such pictures of her."

"Yes," said Aragorn with a smile. "Even then."


	9. Interlude: The Third Letter

**Interlude: The Third Letter**

> _My dear Frodo,_
> 
> _There is nobody to carry this letter to you. Why, then, am I writing it?_
> 
> _It's been six years since Gandalf last stopped off at Rivendell on the way to visiting you. I wonder what he's doing. The Dunadan drops hints sometimes, but even he seldom has time to visit now. They're hunting something, sometimes together but often apart. I don't know what it is._
> 
> _Have I told you about Aragorn? Of course I haven't, because although I've started so many letters, you haven't received any of them. I don't suppose this one will be any different. Who can I find to carry it?_
> 
> _I should have sent you news with Gandalf that last time. He'd visited you quite a lot, you see. I didn't know he was going to stop. I thought I'd always have next year. I thought I'd have another chance._
> 
> _Master Elrond drops dark hints about that Ring of mine, and Aragorn says even more. I think it would be safer here in Rivendell with me. I'm old, Frodo. You can't deny me another sight of it before the end. ___

Bilbo lowered his pen. There was no sound except for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Rivendell was quieter than it once had been; far quieter than when he had visited with Thorin and the dwarves. Sometimes he looked out of his window and imagined that he was entirely alone, in a place inhabited only by memories.

> _Some of the elves have gone into the West, and there are few travellers now. They tell me that the roads to the east are now too dangerous. Aragorn still walks them, though. I wish he wouldn't. I'm finding it harder and harder to understand why anyone should want to travel._
> 
> _I used to dream of places. I longed to see towers and rivers and mountains. Aragorn gave me those, and he gave me back the Shire. We still play that game when we can. But he's seldom here these days, and when he comes, he won't talk about where he's been. He walks in grim places now, I think. But he still visits the edge of the Shire when need takes him, and I think he might have set some of his people to catching pictures for me, so he can pass them on to me second hand. It's a pleasure for both of us, I think._
> 
> _But it's the faces I dream of more and more. I used to long for places that were gone: for Gondolin and Nargothrond and the forests of Doriath; for Numenor and Annuminas and Fornost. Now I write songs about kings and heroes and lovers of old._
> 
> _I wonder what Aragorn's doing now, and Gandalf._
> 
> _And you, my dear Frodo. I think most often of you._
> 
> _But there is no-one left to carry this home to you. ___


	10. Reflections

**Reflections**

Sunlight sparkled on the river. Bilbo dipped his toes into the water, and pulled them back with a gasp. Although it was summer, the waters rose in the far-away cold of the Misty Mountains. "Too cold for an old hobbit like me," he said. 

It had felt like quite an expedition, just dragging himself down to the water's edge. "But I've managed it," he said. He spread his blanket over a damp rock, and sat down carefully, gripping a branch for support. Marsh marigolds clustered at the water's edge, their yellow leaves speckled with shining droplets. Across the river, he could see nothing but trees and the beauty of nature, but he was close enough to the buildings of Rivendell to hear the singing. "I should do this more often," Bilbo said. "I wonder why I keep forgetting."

He saw Aragorn as a reflection first, a tall shape made of darkness and sunlight. "Dunadan!" Bilbo cried. "You're back!"

Aragorn sat down beside him, no blanket for him, just a smooth wet rock. "Not for long."

Bilbo plucked at the blanket's woven edge. "Still hunting?"

He saw the reflection of Aragorn's smile. "Not any more. I found it at last, and took it on a long and bitter journey, then handed it over to others."

"Oh," said Bilbo. "That's good. It's always good when journeys are over." He pulled the trailing ends of the blanket over his lap, and settled them there. "A long and bitter journey, did you say? Well, you should rest here for a nice long time. It's a good place for resting, is Rivendell. After a while, it quite stops you from wanting to go anywhere else. Oh," he remembered, as a kingfisher flashed blue across the water, "you said you couldn't stay for long. That's a shame."

"But how are you, my friend?" Aragorn turned towards him. Bilbo looked at him fully for the first time, seeing his face and not the reflection. Aragorn's grey eyes were surprisingly earnest.

"Oh," said Bilbo. He turned back to the water, and twisted the blanket's trailing fringe around his finger, coiling it tight, then letting it go. "Very well, I think. Yes, very well." Something moved on the far bank: a bird, he thought, hidden by leaves. "I seem to have… settled."

"Yes. I think you have." Aragorn smiled, but the reflection made it a sad smile, broken up by ripples and fading away. 

"Oh, I know these are dark times," Bilbo said. "No-one says much about it, or not to me; I think Master Elrond is trying to protect me, for some reason. Sometimes it seems almost as if… as if the dark times affect me in particular, and so they guard their words. But how can that be?" He shook his head, exhaling on a laugh. "When you're old like me, it's easy to think that everything's about you. That's why I like it here: because it isn't about me. Nothing is. Rivendell has endured for thousands of years, and it won't notice when I'm gone. It's not like Hobbiton, where you couldn't change the colour of your pocket handkerchief without the whole of the Shire talking about it by sunset."

"Indeed," Aragorn agreed. "They still talk about the day you started using the one with purple spots."

Bilbo laughed. "You said you'd never tease me. But I don't mind." 

The laughter was slow to fade. He listened to the sound of a distant song. Although the singer was far away from the river, the notes seemed to weave through the sound of running water, until it created a single song. "Or maybe everything's just a single song," Bilbo mused.

"Perhaps," said Aragorn.

Bilbo let out a breath. "I know the song is turning dark elsewhere in the world. Will you think very badly of me if I tell you that sometimes it… it doesn't seem to matter." He twisted the coil until his fingertip turned white, then released it again. It stayed loosely curled, and did not return to straight. "I still sleep through whole days. I write songs. I work on my book. I spend whole months lost in tales of the distant past. Rivendell grows quieter and the roads are being closed, but I'm still here. I'm never going to leave, not now. And so the darkness doesn't touch me… Oh," he said, when Aragorn made no reply, "I am such a selfish old hobbit. What must you be thinking of me!"

Aragorn placed a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "Only that I wish you could stay like this for many years to come."

"That I _could_ ," Bilbo echoed; he had not missed that. "You speak as if all this is ending. Is it true, Aragorn? Are the dark times coming even to Rivendell?"

"They may," Aragorn said softly, "but the situation is not without hope."

"Which is why you're rushing off again, off into danger again in the wilds." Aragorn's hand was still resting on Bilbo's shoulder. Bilbo reached up and grabbed it with his own. "I wish you had time to rest. I don't need you to bring me pictures from far away places, because that means you've been to far away places. I wish you could stay here for a while and watch the world go by. Remember that night on the mountainside? That's how it started. We painted that picture together. We can do it again; put the beauty of this river into a song, both your words and mine."

"One day, perhaps," Aragorn said.

"But not today." Bilbo tugged at the edges of blanket, pulling it upwards so it wrapped him like a low shawl. He looked down at their reflections, side by side in the water. "Isn't it strange how the same river can sparkle so brightly that it hurts your eyes, but right next to the sparkles, there are places so dark that you can't see anything at all?"

"Like dark clouds that streak across the moon," Aragorn said. "I do remember it, my friend."

Bilbo wondered whether to say it, but he had never been one to keep silent. "Lady Arwen talks to me sometimes," he said. "We talk about you – oh, nothing bad; don't worry. She doesn't say much about it, but I think she watches over you, somehow, from afar. I know you've been walking through the darkest of places." He looked up at the tree tops, at the sunlight, at the sky. "I told her about your pictures. She's painted some of her own for me, showing me places I've never been. But I think… When she does it, I think… I think all she's really seeing is you."

Aragorn said nothing. A grey wagtail landed on a flat rock, its long tail bobbing above the water. A fish jumped from the water, but Bilbo did not see it; he just saw the splash of its landing. 

"I must go." Aragorn stood up. Bilbo bowed his head, and Aragorn bent to pressed his hand lightly against Bilbo's hair. "I hope this time it will not be so long."

"So do I," said Bilbo, but by then Aragorn was already gone, and the only reflection in the river was that of one old hobbit, sitting alone. "So do I," he whispered.


	11. Watchtower

**Watchtower**

Frodo's hand was cold. Bilbo held it in both of his own, but even that was not enough to warm it up. The fire was high, though, and the little room was warm. "Warm even for me, my boy, and old hobbits like me are wont to feel the cold."

Frodo made no reply. His eyes were closed, and he was still sleeping. "But Master Elrond says you're past the worst of it, my boy. He says you'll likely sleep for a good few hours yet. I'd like…" He yawned. "I'd like to be here when you wake up, but I'm feeling quite sleepy myself."

In however many years in Rivendell, he had never before found it impossible to sleep. But when they had carried Frodo in… What he had been told what had been happening to him…

"Gandalf packed me off to bed in the end," he told Frodo. "Said quite bluntly that I was only getting in the way; you know what he can be like. But I couldn't sleep. I kept on wondering…"

Wondering how afraid Frodo must have been. Wondering what it had been like for him. Fourteen nights earlier, what had Bilbo been doing? Dreaming beside the fire, content in his own little bubble of peace. Writing songs. Reaching the end of his book, because he knew that all his stories were over, and the only new stories in the world were things that had nothing to do with him. 

"But they have everything to do with me," he said, "if what they're saying about that old Ring of mine is even half true."

A branch snapped in the hearth. Firelight shone on the dark beams like gold. Frodo lay so very still. 

Bilbo's hand left Frodo's, and closed again around his wrist. Then higher, higher, up his arm, across his elbow, moving over his injured shoulder without touching it, settling on the side of his neck. There was a fine chain there, leading to something just hidden by the white sheets. Bilbo touched the chain. Slowly, slowly he moved his fingers downwards.

The door opened behind him. Bilbo snatched his hand away, and grasped at Frodo's hand again. He was breathing very fast, almost as if he had been running.

"How is he?" Aragorn asked. He came up behind Bilbo, and squeezed his shoulder. "How are _you_ , my friend?"

"Oh, he's going to be quite well," Bilbo said, "or so Master Elrond says. And why should I be anything else myself? I haven't been out there being hunted by those… _things._ " He thought his breathing was under control now. He risked looking up at Aragorn. "You saved his life; I know that much. I can never thank you enough."

"There is no need." Aragorn sat down in the chair that Gandalf often used. 

"Yes, there is." Bilbo closed his eyes, then opened them again. "The dark times are upon us, aren't they, Aragorn? This is what you were preparing me for, that last time, beside the river. I can't hide from it any more. It all comes down to that Ring of mine, and Frodo… Frodo paid the price."

"He will be well," Aragorn said gently, "and he was not alone."

"No." Bilbo let out a breath. "I'm tired, Dunadan. I can't sleep for worrying about him and thinking about things. You've known this was coming for years, you and Gandalf and Elrond. For years you've been walking dangerous roads, and I never asked about them. As long as I had songs and stories, and as long as you bought me pictures…"

"No." Aragorn's voice was firm.

Bilbo faltered. "No?" he asked.

"You were about to reproach yourself for being ignorant. But call it not ignorance, but innocence, and nowhere is innocence more to be found than in the hobbits of the Shire. That you could bear the Ring for so long, yet still retain that innocence is a marvel indeed. If the Dark Lord were to triumph, there would be no innocence left in the world. It is a thing that must be guarded. It is a thing that must be cherished."

Bilbo shook his head. "But…"

"No." Aragorn smiled at his gravely. "You played your part. You have earned your rest."

"But that game of ours…" Bilbo said. "That silly, silly game. As it that mattered!"

"It mattered," said Aragorn. "It matters."

Bilbo looked down at Frodo's pale, still face. He wanted to pull the sheets up to his chin, but then he remembered what lay beneath them. His fingers shook. He wrapped them together, and pressed his hands against his breast. 

"It matters," he said quietly. "I want it still. Play the game, Dunadan, even if it's just one more time. Paint me a picture. Tell me… Tell me where it happened. Tell me about Weathertop."

Aragorn looked at him with those keen grey eyes of his. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Yes. I'm sure." Frodo shifted a little in his sleep, but did not awaken. Bilbo waited until he was still again. "Oh, don't tell me about those _things_ ; Sam's already told me far more than I'd ever want to know about them. Don't tell me about Frodo screaming; I can hear that when I close my eyes, you know. But tell me what it looks like, like you always used to do. It's another Numenorean ruin, isn't it? A watchtower."

"The watchtower of Amon Sul," Aragorn agreed, "built by Elendil himself. But it was destroyed half an age ago, and only a ring of stone remains. Much of it is covered now with grass. But even without the tower, it can still be a place of watching. We stood on the hilltop and the land around us could be seen in a full circle. There was woodland in the south, and mountains in the east. For the most part, the land was featureless, but the day was bright, at least at first. I remember seeing a…"

"No." The word left Bilbo's mouth without him bidding it. "I can't," he said. "I don't…" He stroked Frodo's cheek, then pressed his hand against the side of his throat. His fingertips brushed the chain. _Why shouldn't I touch it?_ he thought. _It is mine, after all._

"Bilbo?" Aragorn's voice was soft, yet somehow inescapable. 

"It was all about places once, wasn't it?" Bilbo said. "I never asked you to put people in the scenes you described to me. But now…" He took Frodo's hand again. "I can't see it in my mind. All I can see is Frodo screaming in the dark, and Sam and the young ones, and you, of course, fighting for his lives, and saving him." He looked across the pale sheets at Aragorn, who had the fire behind him. "Middle Earth is cast in shadow. I can't see the places any more. I'm not sure I want to."

Aragorn stood up and came to stand beside him. "He will be well, Bilbo, and so will you."

Bilbo let out a breath. "Yes," he said.


	12. Interlude: The Fourth Letter

**Interlude: The Fourth Letter**

> _My dear Frodo,_
> 
> _Where are you? What are you doing? What are you thinking? Are you afraid?_
> 
> _I think of you all the time, you know. I wish I could have gone with you_
> 
> _No, not that. I wish you hadn't had to go. That's it. I wish none of this was happening, but it is, so we've got to make the best of it._
> 
> _'When you return' – that's what I said to you that last morning. I was putting on a brave face for you, and you, I think, were putting on a brave face for me. But Aragorn and Gandalf will look after you._
> 
> _I hope you will remember to look after them, too. They're very dear to me. I saw Master Elrond the other day, when he thought he was alone, and he looked so sad and worried. We hobbits, we tend to think that we're the only people who feel sad and afraid sometimes. We don't expect Big People to feel that way, especially if they're like Gandalf, so ancient and wise._
> 
> _Sometimes I worry about Aragorn as much as I worry about you. He spoke to me once about a time when he would be put to the test. I think this is the time. Please help him if you can._
> 
> _Things are dark even here in Rivendell. War is coming. I hope it leaves the Shire alone._
> 
> _I wonder where you are. Aragorn showed me a map before you left, but he said your exact road was yet to be decided. Have you passed through the Gap of Rohan? Are you in Gondor? Or did you go the other road, and have you seen Lothlorien? Aragorn never did get to paint me a picture of Lorien, you know._
> 
> _You don't need to being back pictures of the places you have seen. Just come back._

Bilbo gazed out at the winter sky. "I don't know why I'm writing this," he said. There was just a single page of it, written over weeks, odd disjointed thoughts sometimes scrawled down in the middle of the night. Rivendell was quieter than ever before, and even the singing was almost stilled. The whole world was waiting between one breath and the next, waiting for news.

> _I'm trying to finish my book. It's an old story, and now it's over; that's clear to me now at last. Your story will be so much bigger. I need to finish mine so I can move on to the story that's still being told. But I can't seem to finish mine, or even make a start on yours. I don't like to think of you caught up in such things. I feels worse, somehow, than when it was me. You need to come back so you can write your own story. Maybe, when the dust has settled, I'll be able to read it._

The sons of Elrond had ridden to war, or so it was said, and a company of Aragorn's people had ridden with them, although this Bilbo only learned by keeping one ear open while nodding beside the fire. He saw Arwen at a high window, gazing into the south. "Can you see him?" he asked her weeks later, when she passed him in the Hall of Fire, but she shook her head. "He took the path that was foretold by the Seer," she said, "but that path is too dark for me to see him."

> _I wonder what that means. Are you still with him? I don't like to think of you in dark places._
> 
> _Have you still got that old Ring of mine? Oh, silly me. Of course you have. That's why you've gone on this whole sorry journey. I hope you're taking good care of it. It's very precious, you know._
> 
> _They want you to destroy it. Why would they want you to do that? It's been in my mind more and more these last few days. I wonder why._
> 
> _Have you destroyed it already? Have you sneaked out and done it without asking my permission? It is mine, after all._
> 
> _No, I don't think it's gone._
> 
> _It hasn't gone. If it was, I'd know._
> 
> _I'll know._

And then came a day when the entire world fell silent, caught breathless between action and a thought. When the world resumed, all the bells in Rivendell were ringing, and songs came from every window.

 _I know_ , Bilbo wrote, and then he wept.


	13. The Memory of Faces

**The Memory of Faces**

"I'm always tired now," said Bilbo, when the greetings were over, and all was said and done. "I don't really go outside much any more. Is it summer? I haven't noticed. Or maybe I just keep forgetting."

He had no memory of recent birdsong, and it was a long time since he had seen a butterfly, or touched fresh leaves.

"Something changed," he said. "Something disappeared. I don't know what it was, but I think… I think it was pinning me to this world. Now I keep forgetting…"

He faded away. "Bilbo?" Frodo said quietly, and Bilbo's head jerked up again. 

"Where was I?" he mumbled. "Oh, I don't suppose it mattered much. Have you told me about Aragorn's coronation? I don't think you have, or not enough. Tell me everything. Aragorn used to bring me back word-pictures from wherever he went. Did I tell you that?"

"You did," said Frodo with a smile. "I don't know if I can do it as well as him. I'll start with Minas Tirith. It was quite austere at the time of the crowning, because everyone was just coming back from war. But by the time of the wedding… Oh, Bilbo, there were flowers everywhere! The Pelennor had been devastated, of course, but by midsummer it was covered with wild flowers. All the windows were full of them, even those in empty houses. There were cornflowers and poppies and buttercups, and lots more that I didn't recognise. And at the top of the city, the Citadel…"

"No," Bilbo murmured.

Frodo stopped.

Bilbo smiled. "You do it very well, Frodo my lad, but I've changed my mind. Don't tell me about the towers; tell me about Aragorn. In all these years, I've only once seen him dressed as befitted a king, and even that might have been a dream: I often can't remember, now, the difference between memories and dreams. Does it suit him, being a king?"

"It suits him very well," said Frodo. "When he rose up with the crown on his head, he looked like a legend come to life."

"I'm glad," Bilbo murmured. 

"And when he took Lady Arwen as his queen," Frodo said, "I don't think I have ever seen such joy in a person's eyes before."

"Good," Bilbo nodded. "That's good."

The light had begun to fade when next he opened his eyes, but Frodo was still there, his face turned to the window. Bilbo kept forgetting to look outside. Sometimes he forgot to open his curtains.

"The pictures are fading," Bilbo murmured. "I can't really see them any more. I'm losing the stories, too. I can't seem to organise them into a book. I don't think I ever will. But the people… Old friends… The memories of smiles… That's not ready to fade, not yet. It's all I've got left."

Night fell between one word and the next. Frodo was no longer there, but someone had lit the candles on the dresser, and a blanket had been placed across Bilbo's knees. 

"And it's enough," he said. "It's enough."

But he wondered how long it would be before even that had gone.


	14. Voices at the Door

**Voices at the Door**

He knew this was an ending, but sometimes… sometimes it seemed to him as if this was the beginning of all things.

They passed out of Rivendell, and sad songs followed them. "I think I went for a walk this way," he murmured, "once upon a time. Aragorn caught up with me. We talked about ancient ruins."

He turned his face away as they passed by Weathertop, and did not think about it.

"I never thought I'd see the Shire again," he said, as they stopped to stretch their legs. Bilbo managed three steps, leaning on Elrond's arm. "Oh, I forgot. I didn't need to. Aragorn brought me pictures of it. A sunken lane and soft green hills. And wine, I think; we talked about wine."

Dawn came soft and early on some other day. Bilbo raised his chin from where it had nodded on his chest. "This is quite a pretty place, isn't it? Where is it?"

"The heart of the Shire," said Elrond. "Woody End, I believe the hobbits call it."

"I played here once, a very long time ago," Bilbo said, "but it feels as if I'm coming here for the first time."

He was rocked in the arms of harp music. When he opened his eyes, he was unsurprised to see Frodo and Sam waiting for them in the twilight. "Hullo, Frodo!" he said.

Having Frodo there made the memories come closer to the surface. Often now he drifted, unless there was a friend or a familiar face to anchor him to awareness. Once he'd expected to travel so very far. Then he'd accepted that he would never travel again. But now, "I think I am quite ready to go on another journey," he said.

They rode through song, until they emerged on the far side of it, and saw the sea. "Oh look, Frodo, the sea! I've never seen the sea! But now I see it, I think… I know that I've dreamed about it, oh so many times."

"So have I," said Frodo.

"Or maybe it's just because the elves sing about it so much. It's hard to remember what you've seen and what you've only heard about. But there's no 'only' about it. I remember the pictures and some of the songs. I have forgotten so many of the places where I've been."

The white ship drew his eyes for a while. "Oh, look," Bilbo said, and it might have been hours later, or just minutes. "Gandalf's here."

Frodo smiled. Sam was weeping.

Then Merry and Pippin rode up. "I wish Aragorn was here," Bilbo said, "because then we'd have everyone. I wonder if he's seen the sea. I'll have such a picture to paint for him next time we meet." Above him, the white sea birds called. "No, I remember now," said Bilbo. "I won't see the Dunadan again. The world is his now, or all the dearest, most precious parts of it. I won't…"

But then it was time to go onto the ship. The wind filled the sails, and then they were away. 

"It's quite nice," said Bilbo, "travelling without getting sore feet. I should have done this before. But then I'd have missed seeing Aragorn coming into his own. I liked seeing that."

There was music even then, and the birds and the waves and the sails made music of their own, and all of them together made a perfect tune. Frodo looked back towards Middle Earth, but Bilbo turned to face the West, "because I began to say my farewells so many years ago," he murmured, but his words were taken by the wind. 

Slowly, slowly memory returned. "Do you remember…?" he said to Frodo more than once. "I remember… I remember…"

The Shire in spring time. Rivendell in the winter. His father's hand upon his head. Scurrying after Thorin and the dwarves. Aragorn reflected in the water, crowned with stars. Black rocks on the moorland. A skylark's song. Frodo asleep and so very pale. Arwen at a window. A ruin by the river. The laughter of elves. 

And then, far away in the west, they saw a silver strand, and a soft fragrance came across the waves. On they sailed, and as the sun rose, Bilbo saw a land of soft green hills and fair flowers. Blinking, he saw towers of white stone, and clouds in the moonlight, and rocks on the moorland, sparkling in the light. He saw sunlight on the water, and apple blossom and cherry trees. He saw every tree there had ever been, in every different green. He saw the plains of Rohan and the woods of Lorien, and all the places he had ever seen, and all the places he had yet to travel to. 

"Oh!" He clapped his hands together. "It's all here! It's all here, because Middle Earth's just an echo of Valinor beyond the sea."

And with the places came the memories. Because how could he look upon white towers without feeling that Aragorn stood beside him, painting them with words? How could he look upon starlight without remembering Arwen? How could he see stone without seeing Thorin? How could he see green hills without remembering those old, dear hobbits of the Shire?

"I understand now," he said. "This is the origin of all songs, and everything is here, _everything_ , everything that matters."

And smiling, he stepped from the ship and walked into the pictures beyond.

******

END

******

Note: The title comes from "I set beside the fire and think," the poem Bilbo sings not long before the Fellowship leaves Rivendell. Several near-quotes from this poem are scattered through the story.

Thanks to anyone who's reached the end. If you enjoyed it, it would be lovely if you could consider letting me know. I'm very new to writing in this fandom (although I've loved the books for many decades) so am still very much in nervous, insecure mode. Thanks for reading!


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